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The nightmare I had the other night
Feb. 8th, 2002 04:21 pmI'm in a helicopter, hovering in mid air, about 200 yards from Tower One of the World Trade Center. Rotor's roar; buffeting from the superheated air rushing upward; black clouds against incongruously blue, peaceful sky. A thin, collapsible aluminum bridge of sorts leads to the roof of Tower One, with a tenuous, waist-high set of cable handholds. For a moment, I merely stare, wondering what the hell I'm doing here; watching the ground impossible far below, seeing- oh, God- people plummeting from the heavens. The pilot's shouting brings me to my senses; I have to walk across the threadlike bridge, into the inferno- some sort of rescue mission; only the urgency is clear. I stall, terrified; try to figure what time it is, or why I'm here- but I know I have to go, now. Finally, I nerve myself, take the first step onto that swaying, flexing bridge...
...and jolt awake, drenched in sweat; before you say it: yes, I'm already searching for a therapist. I don't think it's specifically PTSD, though (although there are obviously elements of that); rather, I think my subconscious, as it has done before, is taking the most drastic steps possible to punch through my willful blindness, and alert me to a problem. The problem: very simply, I don't want to live in New York City anymore.
When I came here, ten years ago, New York was a magical place, loaded to the brim with things to do and people to meet; an exploration for the soul. The problem is, I've come to use those distractions, I think; I live this caffeine-jagged life, in a way, as a distraction from my life, a movie I'm watching on fast-forward. I've let myself ignore issues of direction, or purpose, that I didn't have easy answers to- and now, I find that I've frittered away ten years to little effect, and I'm living a life I have no real connection to. Aside from the sheer fear factor of living here- I was having panic attacks and insomnia well before 9/11- I find I've woken up at last, a sleepwalker in an unfamiliar land, with a crossroads before me. I have to find myself, and I don't think I can do it here.
...and jolt awake, drenched in sweat; before you say it: yes, I'm already searching for a therapist. I don't think it's specifically PTSD, though (although there are obviously elements of that); rather, I think my subconscious, as it has done before, is taking the most drastic steps possible to punch through my willful blindness, and alert me to a problem. The problem: very simply, I don't want to live in New York City anymore.
When I came here, ten years ago, New York was a magical place, loaded to the brim with things to do and people to meet; an exploration for the soul. The problem is, I've come to use those distractions, I think; I live this caffeine-jagged life, in a way, as a distraction from my life, a movie I'm watching on fast-forward. I've let myself ignore issues of direction, or purpose, that I didn't have easy answers to- and now, I find that I've frittered away ten years to little effect, and I'm living a life I have no real connection to. Aside from the sheer fear factor of living here- I was having panic attacks and insomnia well before 9/11- I find I've woken up at last, a sleepwalker in an unfamiliar land, with a crossroads before me. I have to find myself, and I don't think I can do it here.
